


california boy

by rulingcourt



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: California college boy Iwa-chan, Chapter 395 spoilers, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24680491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rulingcourt/pseuds/rulingcourt
Summary: [MANGA CHAPTER 395 SPOILERS]Hajime knew California might be different, but it was another thing to see it for himself.--OR: Five moments from Iwaizumi Hajime’s post-high school life in Southern California.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	california boy

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of feelings.

Hajime’s suite mate, Mike, suggested it after the hundredth time Hajime mentioned Tooru, his long distance boyfriend in Argentina, in conversation. 

It’s never on purpose. Just small things like, “Tooru said _this_ ,” “Tooru texted me _that_ ,” and — during that one night they got hammered together at Newport Beach — “Tooru’s so pretty and I miss him.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but Hajime was usually more guarded. He certainly didn’t think he’d be telling his suitemate of less than a month about the true nature of him and his nightly Skype appointment’s relationship. Usually he would have cared more, but his eyes were following the ebb and flow of the ocean waves against the backdrop of an orange sunset, and he had felt an ease and weightlessness that only California weather seemed to elicit from him. 

And the alcohol probably helped too.

“Ah sorry, dude,” replied Mike, who was from New York City and came to Irvine because he _just needed to_ _chill, y’know?_ and whose only sense of the Japanese language came from sometimes watching _Naruto_ , subbed, with his little sister. “My girlfriend’s at Amherst, so I get it.” He paused and gave Hajime’s shoulder a friendly nudge.

“Time zones suck,” he added.

Their bottles of beer clinked together, they each took a long swig, and their roommate bond had been formally forged to the distant sounds of some guy blasting Drake on a boom box.

“Maybe it would help if you made a few more friends here too, man,” Mike said, after another minute. “Join a club or something.”

And so, near the end of his first month of classes, Hajime finds himself at the college block party walking down the line of club booths to see if anything piques his interest.

There’s International Club, where a lot of the other international students meet, just to splinter off into smaller groups from their respective countries. 

But Hajime thinks of Tooru in Argentina, who marathoned all of _Star Trek_ and _Star Wars_ in Spanish in a mad rush to cram as much of the language into his brain before heading off to chase his South American dream the summer after third year. He thinks of Tooru making friends with his new Argentinian teammates, with the entire wait staff at the cafe near his training facility, and with the tias in his apartment complex who give him home cooked dulce de leche and joke about setting their daughters up with the handsome Japanese boy next door.

Hajime eyes a couple Japanese students behind the booth; he gives them a small smile and a nod, and walks through the crowd to check out the next stall.

It’s Intramural Sports, which is awfully tempting. Hajime misses Seijoh volleyball fiercely, but he knows the next four years of his education will already be filled to the brim with sports-related classes. Joining a club is an opportunity to try something new and out of the box. Isn’t that what all those cheesy movies from Tooru’s farewell package said college was about?

Still, he recognizes a few guys from his Intro to Kinesiology class and it would be rude to not acknowledge the people he was going to be spending the rest of the semester with. Hajime gives them a tentative wave and inwardly cringes. 

California made him more relaxed, but it also made him feel infinitely more shy around new people who weren’t as patient as Mike about his slow, too careful English. He always felt he was getting the joke too late or taking forever to formulate his responses, like he was working at a completely different rhythm than everyone else around him. Moments always seemed to pass him by and it made him feel terribly homesick for Japan.

“Yo,” one of them—Armaan, Hajime thinks?—greets. “It’s Hajime, right?”

Armaan holds his hand out in what Hajime belatedly realizes must be for a low five. He slaps the hand a beat too late, and he feels his face heat up. Hajime still gets thrown off by near-strangers calling him by his given name. He knows it’s, like, a thing here in America but not even Matsukawa or Hanamaki call him Hajime and he’s known them now for years. It just feels too personal.

“Iwaizumi,” Hajime corrects.

Armaan says nothing, but he’s making direct eye contact with Hajime. The moment is weird and long until Hajime realizes Armaan was probably waiting for Hajime to speak more than just a single word back, probably didn’t understand that “Iwaizumi” is a surname, and probably is hoping for more words in English.

He resists the urge to slap his own forehead.

“I’ve seen you in class,” Hajime tries.

“Yeah!” Armaan says eagerly, and Hajime thinks he’s probably just relieved the awkward pause has finally ended. “Yeah. So...you play?”

This, Hajime knows. He grins. “Some of everything, but mostly volleyball.”

“Cool!” Armaan replies, grinning back and handing him a flyer. “We’re not doing volleyball until next month, but here’s a schedule. Come by whenever.”

“Yo, speaking of volleyball,” the other guy at the booth (Kenneth, Hajime remembers) cuts in, nudging at Armaan, “Have you seen that guy on the Japanese international youth team? He spikes like a _cannon_.”

Armaan starts with, “I don’t follow volleyball on that level, man—” before Hajime exclaims, louder than he intends, “ _Ushijima Wakatoshi!_ ” 

Kenneth leans over the table, and gestures emphatically, following along to whatever YouTube compilation is playing inside his head, “Dude, he’s _crazy_ , right!? Like he just goes WA-POW—”

“With his left hand,” Hajime nods sagely. “It’s very good.” He searches his mental dictionary for his next words, then says, “But very annoying to receive.”

“Yeah, right? I bet it hurts like a mother!”

Hajime’s mental dictionary hasn’t heard that one yet. “Like...a mother?” he repeats, thinking he’s maybe misheard.

“Like a _mother_!!” Kenneth shouts, slamming his hands on the table and, from what it sounds like, he’s resumed his long play-by-play for Armaan. He’s speaking twenty miles a minute and even though he knows volleyball inside and out, Hajime can barely keep up.

So he holds onto the Intramural schedule, nods politely at Armaan, and melts back into the crowd.

Like a mother. Hajime will have to ask Mike about that one later.

The next few tables are whatever. Art Club. A Capella. 3D Printing. Film Club. Theater Club. Clubs that are made up of a bunch of Greek symbols. He grabs some freebies (a metal water bottle, a drawstring backpack, and a bumper sticker to mail to his mom) but nothing really grabs him enough to deal with another awkward conversation in English. The beginnings of a headache pulse behind Hajime’s temple.

He’s near the end of the congested aisle, thinking about bailing on the whole club thing and lining up for one of those taco trucks Mike won’t shut up about, when he sees them.

Two guys walk ahead of Hajime in the crowd. Tall, fit, well-dressed. Regular looking guys.

They’re holding hands.

Hajime nearly drops his bag.

He doesn’t quite know what to do with this information but his first urge is to follow them. Which he knows is weird, and Hajime doesn’t wanna be weird, so he straggles a few feet behind and keeps a few people between him and the two men. They’re laughing about something the one on the left just said, and the one on the right punches him playfully on the shoulder before resting his head there. The other turns and kisses the top of his head.

Instinctually, Hajime quickly glances over his shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd to see if anyone else had seen. 

If anyone did, no one seemed to care.

Hajime feels his face heat up, and he thinks of Tooru, and carefully stolen kisses, and sitting across from each other but never next to each other in restaurants. Of slapping him on the back as a show of friendly teamwork and keeping count of how long his hand could linger there before it made other people uncomfortable. 

Of waiting until it got dark to hold Tooru’s hand on a walk, and even then, only if no one else was around. 

His parents knew. Tooru’s parents knew. Hanamaki and Matsukawa knew. He suspected every starting team member at Seijou knew. They loved them, but there was an unspoken, polite agreement not to bring it up too often and especially not in front of strangers. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down, after all.

Hajime knew California might be different, but it was another thing to see it for himself.

As the two men turn out of the crowd and toward a booth, Hajime cranes his neck to see what’s caught their attention. They’re yelling but it doesn’t seem aggressive because the students managing the table are yelling too as they come from behind to meet the couple with tight bear hugs. They’re talking too quickly, but Hajime’s eyes find the rainbow colored table cloth and he understands. He feels himself shaking.

As soon as the group finishes their greetings and settles down, Hajime nearly trips over his feet as he zooms over to the table. He knows he probably looks stupid and over-eager but he knows if he doesn’t move now, he might psyche himself out. Steeling himself, he takes a better look at the students managing the table. Besides the couple, there’s an Asian American woman with short, severe bangs and another person wearing a bunch of pins on their lapel. They all look at him expectantly.

There’s a beat before the woman says, “Hey there! You interested in the LGBTQ Club?”

“Um,” Hajime starts, quiet and stuttered. And he kicks himself for being an idiot and rushing over here without thinking of what to say. 

He’s about to turn around and pretend like this whole thing never happened, when the woman speaks again, “I like your shirt. Godzilla’s the best.”

Hajime feels his fists slowly uncurl at his sides. He hadn’t even realized they were clenched.

“Thanks,” he says, cautious. “My...my boyfriend gave it to me.”

“My girlfriend gave me a jacket with Godzilla embroidered on the back,” she responds easily. “It’s pretty fucking cool. I’ll show you sometime.”

She smiles, radiant, and hands Hajime a flyer. 

“No pressure. But we’re here on campus if you need us. I’m Esty.”

Hajime swallows. He grabs the flyer and takes it in. He looks at Esty, at the person with the rainbow lapel pins, at the couple sitting behind them still holding hands, and at once there are a million words he both wants to say and not say at all. Words like, “have you ever—?”, and “do your parents—?”, and, “my boyfriend is so pretty and I miss him.”

So he reads the flyer, sees the club’s meeting times, and decides maybe he doesn’t have to say all the words just yet. Maybe, this time, the moment hadn’t passed him by but, actually, was only just beginning.

He smiles, feels the California sun on his face, holds out his hand to Esty, and says, “Call me Hajime.” 

And it’s a start.


End file.
